


Unseen and Destroyed

by SoDoRoses (FairyChess)



Series: Greek Myths Verse [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But mostly fluff, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Hellenistic Religion & Lore), M/M, mentions of famine and plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 22:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyChess/pseuds/SoDoRoses
Summary: The underworld is no place for Springbut try telling Spring that.





	Unseen and Destroyed

The first time Roman wanders into the underworld, it’s an accident. Mostly.

He means to enter the cave, certainly. There are only so many places he can hide from his hoard of nymph babysitters, and if they are notorious cowards who will certainly never look for him in a cold, shadowy cave, he’s going to use all the advantages he can get.

The thing is, he means to go to the back of the cave, so they won’t be able to see him quite so easy if they happen to walk past. But the cave doesn’t seem to actually  _have_ a back.

Curiosity is one of his many –  _many_  – character flaws, so of course Roman can’t just leave it there.

Back and back he goes, and then eventually  _down_ , until he comes out in an open, cavernous space.

It’s huge, astonishingly so. The ceiling is so high he can’t see it at all, no matter how hard he cranes his neck – the air above simply seems to fade into darkness. A field of withered flowers – asphodel, all of it dry and crumbling – stretches out in front of him, as far as he can see.

Roman hates dead flowers, thinks they’re an affront to his good name. Pouting, he begins to walk through the field, running his fingers along the blossoms, until they swell and brighten with life.

It feels like hours he walks around, the asphodel blooming around him, and yet when he looks around he’s made barely a dent in the endless expanse around him. His pout has become a full-on scowl now.

He’s looking up at the ceiling, turning in considering circles, wondering how he might go about producing some sunlight, maybe a spring shower, to speed along the process, when he takes another turn and there is someone standing directly in front of him.

Roman’s breath catches.

The other god is striking, pale skin and dark hair, dressed in black and the barest hints of midnight-blue. He’s staring at Roman with narrowed eyes. Roman feels a faint flush around the collar of his shirt.

“You are not supposed to be here,” he says, brittle and sharp, and the heat of Roman’s blush feels like its been doused with a bucket of snow-melt.

“I think I can go wherever I want, actually,” Roman snaps, angry, furious at adding yet  _another_  person to the list of those who think they can tell Roman where to go, what to do, what to wear, and say, and  _be_ -

The other god’s eyes narrow further, irritated.

“The prince of spring hardly belongs in underworld. This is a place of Death. There is no need for your presence,”

Roman feels a faint embarrassment for not realizing exactly where he was, or who he’s speaking too, but its mostly drowned out by frustration.

He gestures his arms wide at the swathes of frail flowers.

“I think you need my help more than just about anyone, actually,” he snarks.

Logan startles a little at Roman’s sharp tone, turning from annoyed to wary. Then he shakes his head, as if to dispel it.

He grips Roman around the arm, tugging, and Roman squawks in indignation as Logan pulls him under the mantle of shadow.

And then they’re in the cave, just far enough back that Roman can barely see the late afternoon sunlight and hear the panicked cries of the nymphs, obviously looking for him.

“Go,” says Logan, looking at the mouth of the cave with a faint expression of nausea, “You are missed,”

“Don’t tell me what to do-”

But Logan is already pulling the mantle around himself, and then he vanishes with a silence so dense it must be deliberate.

A nymph is just at the mouth of the cave, calling Roman’s name, clearly having spotted him. Roman glares at the empty space where Logan was, petulant, and follows her out.

What an ass.

* * *

The second time Roman enters the underworld, it’s out of spite.

He hadn’t much appreciated being thrown out like a stray cat, perfunctory and callous; he was the Prince of Spring for goodness sake.

He marches pointedly into the cave after successfully ditching his hangers-on. He comes out in what may be the exact same spot, but seeing as the flowers show no signs of his previous presence, even faint ones, he’s not so sure. He goes about sprucing them up, smug and persistent.

It’s the same as last time; he turns, and Logan is right there. His expression is exasperated, and maybe a touched confused.

“Why have you returned? I told you that your presence is unnecessary. Bordering on unnatural. You have no good reason to be here,”

“Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face,” said Roman, mocking.

Except Logan must not pick up on the mocking, because his face blazes to life near-instantaneously with a bright pomegranate-red.

Roman suddenly feels a little flushed himself, clearing his throat.

“You really do need help,” he said, trying to smooth over the tension in the air, “This field is an affront to flowers everywhere. It’s causing me real pain,”

Logan’s brow furrows.

“If unhealthy plant-life causes you physical discomfort, that is an even more apt reason to cease returning to this place,”

Roman’s mouth quirks a tad before he can stop himself.

“It was a joke,” he says, amused.

The red returns, and it’s a genuinely lovely color, Roman thinks, quite without any conscious input. He realizes he… very much wants to see it again.

Logan takes advantage of Roman’s distraction and pulls him once more under the mantle. They come up even further back the last time, Logan pushing very gently on Roman’s shoulder in the direction of the entrance.

“Please cease your trespassing,” says Logan, clearly trying for firm, maybe even menacing, but instead coming off awkward and a little embarrassed. Roman grins at him, and Logan’s eyes go a little bit wide.

He vanishes before Roman can call him on it. This time, Roman walks out of the cave before someone finds him, whistling a tune and smiling to himself.

This is going to be entirely too much fun, and Roman is looking forward to it.

* * *

The third time he goes to the underworld, it’s because he’s lonely.

Oh, he’s certainly fulfilling his desire to mess with Logan. But mostly he just wants someone to talk to. Logan had ordered him out of the underworld both times they’d spoken, but at least he told Roman what to do like he thought Roman was a  _person._  The nymphs barely seemed to notice Roman  _had_  opinions, let alone care what those opinions might be.

He walks in a straight line this time, wondering if he’ll come across anything besides the endless asphodel fields. He glances behind himself a few times, smiling absently at the trail of vibrant white he’s leaving through the brittle pale gray.

He turns back, and Logan is in front of him, eyebrows pinched in baffled consternation.

“What are you  _doing_?” he says, incredulous.

The truth bubbles up out of Roman’s throat before he can stop it.

“I came to see you,”

Logan’s breath stutters. His eyes widen, and that lovely red begins to creep up his face. Roman smiles and Logan looks away immediately.

“I am a guest, you know,” he wheedles, “You  _could_  be a gracious host, and show me around?”

Logan hesitates.

Roman takes a step forward, just inside Logan’s personal space, and Logan visibly swallows.

“Very well,” he says woodenly, “Since you apparently have no intention of listening to me,”

“Didn’t I say not to tell me what to do?” says Roman sweetly. Logan’s mouth twitches, just barely.

Roman decides he’s going to make Logan laugh if it’s the last thing he does.

After that, he stops keeping track of how many times he comes.

* * *

Logan describes himself in ways that baffle Roman.

Cold. Unfeeling. Efficient.  _Heartless._

Cold, he says, like he doesn’t blaze to life with indignation when Roman says something factually inaccurate. Unfeeling, like he thinks Roman doesn’t notice the way he pores over book after book, longingly studying the world above he never has time to visit and would hardly be welcome in besides.

Efficient, like he can’t be distracted by the slightest hint of chaos in the pursuit of knowledge –  _Logan, how fast do you think bamboo grows in the underworld? Logan, how long can I keep an orchid alive with no sunlight? Logan, can I water a Venus Flytrap with water from the Styx? The Lethe? The Acheron? Logan, Logan, Logan-_

Heartless, like he doesn’t accept Roman’s hand tucked into his elbow without comment or complaint, place his other hand over Roman’s and gently help him over the rough stones of the floors and the paths. Like his whole expression doesn’t relax and unfold like a blooming flower every time he looks Roman in the eyes.

Logan is warm, and achingly gentle, not as if he thinks Roman is fragile but like he thinks he’s  _precious_ , something beautiful and worthy of awe. He still occasionally tries to shoo Roman away from his visits, but it’s obviously not because he doesn’t want Roman around – he looks like he’s pulling teeth every time he says it.

Logan’s saying it because he thinks Roman is too  _good_  for the underworld. He pulls Roman away from the rivers and tries to keep him from seeing the dead, won’t so much as let Roman look at any food. He watches Roman with rapt attention, but also like he thinks Roman will vanish any second. He says every goodbye like it’s the last one.

Logan thinks Roman is going to get bored – he thinks Roman is going to leave one day and not come back.

Roman always does. He will, as many times as it takes to convince him.

* * *

The shift is so gradual, Roman barely notices it. He’s sure Logan doesn’t at all, because he almost certainly would have put a stop to it if he had.

Chairs move from across the tables to next to each other. Sharing the couch becomes sharing a bench, then a blanket, then a chair, pressed up right against one another until Roman’s breath fans across Logan’s collarbones and Logan’s fingers drape across Roman’s shivering neck.

It’s then that it seems perfectly natural for Roman to sigh, content and happy, and press a kiss to the exposed skin near his face.

Logan’s breath hitches, and Roman waits. When Logan says nothing, Roman does it again, barely open-mouthed and achingly slow, and Logan shudders underneath him.

“Don’t” says Logan in a strained voice.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Roman murmurs, before throwing one leg over Logan’s lap and sealing their mouths together.

The moment freezes, just barely, and then Logan makes a pleading sound into Roman’s mouth, opening under him, pressing them together from hip to chest. The kiss is claiming and a little sloppy and Roman’s feels dizzy, drunk, desperate to get Logan as close as possible and never let him move away again.

“Stay with me,” Logan begs, and then immediately looks mortified, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Yes,” Roman replies, relishing the way Logan’s face shines with awe and his eyes darken with want. Roman kisses him again, and again, over and over, each one a promise, silent and shouted.

 _Forever_.

* * *

Months pass – beautiful, joyous months, and Roman is near-delirious with the heady taste of  _Logan-Logan-Logan_ , whole days spent walking hand-in-hand or wrapped in Logan’s arms in the heavy blankets of their bed –  _their_  bed, their blankets, their home, their  _life_ – and Roman is so happy it never once occurs to him to consider the world he’s left behind.

Until Logan enters their room one day, pale with discomfort and impassive as the very first time Roman saw him. Roman’s concern outweighs his alarm – he stands up with his arms outstretched, reaching for him.

Logan steps back, out of his reach.

Roman’s hands hang in the air for a moment, unsure, and then drop to his sides.

“Logan?” he says softly.

Logan’s blank expression doesn’t waver.

“There are messengers from Olympus,” he says, like a stone given a voice, “They are here to take you back,”

Roman recoils.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says immediately.

“You do not have a choice,”

Roman bristles.

“They can’t make me leave,”

Logan is already shaking his head.

It comes out then. The plants dying. The ground freezing and the crops withering from frost. His mother is furious, and she’s bringing her wrath down on every growing thing she can manage.

“You’re king of the underworld,” says Roman, his voice broken, “Are you going to even  _try_  to fight for me?”

Logan squeezes his eyes shut, like he can’t even look at Roman.

“This was never going to be permanent,” he says softly. “You do not belong here,”

“I belong with  _you_ ,” Roman spits. His throat feels like it’s clogged with a cluster of knives, every syllable a scrape against his throat.

“No,” says Logan, already turning away, “No, you do not,”

He leaves, and when the messengers find Roman and lead him away, he’s nowhere to be found. Roman wishes he could say goodbye. Roman wishes he’d never met Logan at all.

* * *

The plants around him are, of course, flourishing, and it makes Roman want to scream. It makes him want to tear them all up by the roots and shred them into wedding confetti, a shower of ruined life to mirror the way Roman actually feels.

And Roman is  _miserable_. He misses Logan like a limb. Roman keeps making jokes before he can think about it, but instead of restrained smiles the nymphs coo and giggle, sounding false and forced. He turns to smile every time something makes him happy – however infrequent that is – but there is no pale figure, watching him like he’s the dawn sun after a century of starless nights.

And it’s such a stupid thing to be irritated by, but nothing  _tastes_ right. The meat is never dry enough, not enough salt. The fruit is wet and pulpy, disintegrating in his mouth and dripping down his chin. He’d become accustom to thick, warm soups and heavy breads, and now all the food he eats here feels insubstantial, like eating air.

Everyone is comforting him, but for all the wrong reasons. Like Roman’s been rescued from some horrible ordeal, rather than torn away from the first bit of genuine happiness he’s ever had. Like Logan had hurt him in any way other than tearing Romans heart out because he doesn’t think Roman is worth putting up a fuss about.

Like Roman should be grateful. Like he’s supposed to be  _happy_.

Let them wait, then, for Roman to ‘recover’ and smile again and be placid and pleasant. They’ll wait forever, and Roman can’t be bothered to care.

* * *

It’s months later before anyone realizes something is wrong. That’s when the humans start dying.

It is one part plague and one part famine – the harvest is all poison. The grain, the vegetables, the fruit – all of it toxic.

The ones that eat it die of illness; if they don’t, they starve. They perish in crowds and hoards, clogging the streets with carts full of bodies and the air with the smell of sick and decay.

Everyone is horrified, but Roman feels a vicious sort of satisfaction alongside his guilt.

Logan didn’t even try to fight for Roman. Let him see, now, exactly how badly he broke Roman’s heart.

* * *

Roman is expecting to be called up to Olympus – mortal lives don’t mean much to most gods, but this is an unprecedented amount of destruction, especially for one as minor as Roman. It won’t go unpunished, though Roman isn’t actually sure what they intend to do about it – he feels vindictive, yes, and hurt, but he’d never have done any of this on purpose, and he doesn’t quite know how to stop.

He is  _not_  expecting to step into Olympus and see  _Logan._

Logan, who could barely stand to come to the mouth of the cave to throw Roman out, that very first time. Logan who hasn’t left the underworld in centuries, Logan who knows everyone in this room detests him.

Everyone except Roman, who Logan hasn’t even looked at.

Instead, Logan is facing the other gods, his face impassive as stone. The others are all muttering, furious and unhappy.

“Roman!” one of them calls, and Roman snaps taut, wide-eyed and confused.

He’s directed to the center, next to Logan, who still doesn’t turn.

“A claim has been made. We would confirm it,”

Roman doesn’t know how to respond, so he looks around them, waiting.

“Did you eat the food of the underworld, during your imprisonment?”

Roman stutters across ‘imprisonment’ before the rest of the sentence catches up to him, and then his heart catches in his throat and he turns his astonished face on Logan.

Logan, who is perfectly motionless and still not looking back, but Roman can see the tension in his shoulders, the barest shake of his hands.

“Yes,” said Roman breathlessly, “I did,”

Angry muttering breaks out among them, but Roman is too stunned to process it. He picks up only a few words. Returning. Six months. A compromise, to satisfy the laws and keep the humans alive in turn.

It’s not until the very end, when Roman is feeling light-headed and dizzy, that he understands exactly what Logan has done.

“You will kill no more humans, now that the law is satisfied?”

Roman opens his mouth to explain, to defend himself, but Logan is already speaking.

“The next harvest will no longer be poisoned,” said Logan flatly. “More will die this season – there is little to be done. But all will return to normal next year,”

He receives a tight nod in response, and Logan walks out of the room. Halfway to the door, he turns, barely, and Roman realizes Logan intends him to follow.

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting. It’s not that Logan continue to look away from him, as they climb into the chariot and pull away, towards the west. Trepidation begins to creep up on Roman.

Maybe Logan hasn’t come back for him. Maybe this isn’t a rescue. What if Logan is  _angry?_

He's always so careful, so meticulous with the balance of life and death. Roman has upset it –  _catastrophically_. Logan is fixing it, the only way he knows how.

A lump is growing in Roman’s throat, a dense ache that makes it hard to swallow. Every second Logan doesn’t look at him makes it grow, until they reach the cave entrance and Roman can barely breath.

Logan steps out of the chariot and Roman follows miserably. The cool shade slips over him as he steps into the stone, and even in his sorrow Roman can’t help but relax for being out of the pounding sun.

But he’s barely done so before he's shoved unceremoniously up against the wall of the cave.

Roman doesn’t have time to process before Logan crushes their mouths together, and Roman moans instantly in relief.

He buries his fingers in Logan’s hair, surely too tight, but Logan only groans in response, grabbing Roman around the waist and hitching him up higher, until Roman’s feet are barely touching the ground and Logan is carrying nearly all his weight.

There's nothing cold, nothing unfeeling here – Logan is as bright as the sun, all fire and passion, his mouth a blaze against Roman’s and his hands like a brand on Roman’s neck, his waist, the backs of his thighs, everywhere all at once.

Roman is nearly frantic with need, intoxicated with the feel and smell and  _taste_  of him, so it's a long time before he realizes Logan is gasping words into his mouth.

A litany of apologies and desperate declarations, love, safety, _forever_ , and all of them threaded with the same plea over and over again.

_Marry me._

“Yes,” Roman says, breathless, “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you, forever, I love you-”

Logan laughs, warm and soft and bright, like hearthfire and fresh bread. Roman would do anything to hear it again.

He  _can_  do anything. He has forever.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come talk about sander sides with me on my [ tumblr ](%E2%80%9Dtulipscomeinalsortsofcolors.tumblr.com%22)


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